I went to bed that night with those thoughts on my mind, wondering what it would be like to be a slave for him. By this time, I really liked him, felt...that we had become good friends. I thought, how hard could it be to be his slave, him my Master? By the next day, I had just a few more questions for him, which he again answered patiently. By the end of the conversation, he seemed to know what I wanted more than I did at the time. He asked if I wanted to be his slave and after a few minutes I. I was still hard. I still had cum up in my pussy.“Your ovaries,” the naughty futa-demon who had given me this gift whispered in my mind. she was peering over my mother’s shoulder in the reflection of the mirror. A cute thing with red hair and black devil horns peeking out of the curls. She had a youthful face, adorable and cute like me.I was sixteen, my body slender and petite. I was cute as fuck. Hot as fuck. Sexy as goddamn fuck. I loved sex. With boys. With girls. It didn’t matter. My mom. “Is something wrong?” She moved into the kitchen and went to the cupboard and got a bowl. I didn’t answer her right away, but watched her from behind as she grabbed a bowl and sat down beside me.“No nothing is wrong.”She poured some cereal and then looked at me. “So did you enjoy watching me last night?”“Yes I did.” I was so glad I was under the table, because my hardon was out of my boxers and pressing against the underside of the table.“Good. Maybe after breakfast we can use it together.”. And again similar to a massage table in that it has a cushioned top (for while the intention is discipline, it isn't discomfort), of a deep red leather, quilted and stitched and buttoned in a luxurious fashion, to an extent that causes even me to frown (though I dare not admit even to myself that on occasion, and only when I am absolutely assured of privacy, I too have lain down on this bench), as if designed to encourage an extended recumbency which would run somewhat counter to my immediate.
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